Skinny jeans on the bench press
You burn the candle at both ends
If anyone asks why, then they're not worth your time
Why am I so out of breath
Club sandwich pressed in north end
Grittled shank on rye
A gunshot at half time
A duration of the mystic land that I give me
Who was that man?
A wooly picket line
Intestinal red wine
Now it's hard not to suspect
Your lying tell is bated breath
I inhale for suspense
You triggered my mammalian sighing reflex
So I take everything as a lesson
Something I trained out of myself
With mindless self-indulging confidence
Indulge me in whatever quick release I could muster
Social media, carbohydrates and cannabis, the world was my oyster
And I was the knight by which they duck
But now he's dead, he's gone
I fucking start anew
I'm a developmental beast, wrong version of myself
Sixteen bathrooms
Sixteen bedrooms
Sixteen fridges
64-bit computers
Fifteen of them
Oh how nice it must be
To feel so bored
I just need to find someone to tell me
I'm just tired
Paroles2Chansons dispose d’un accord de licence de paroles de chansons avec la Société des Editeurs et Auteurs de Musique (SEAM)
